Where There is Evil (16 page)

Her courage was infectious and I told her why I was asking questions about my father.

When I got home I had a phone call from C’s husband. She had told him of the hostility I was facing from some family members, who hated the idea of public exposure. ‘Ignore these
people,’ he said flatly. ‘If it was their child who was abused, or their daughter who had gone missing, it would be a different story. Bottom line is, Sandra, you have to live with the
fact that your dad spoke to you, and I agree you could not dismiss what was said and just get on with your life as if nothing had happened. I have real respect for what you’ve done, and if
they can’t give you support, then they are not worth bothering about. Those who are right behind you, like ourselves, are the ones who count, so don’t give the doubters the time of
day.’

His unexpected midnight call really lifted my spirits. There was no way I wanted to cause a split within the larger extended family, which was important to me, but my professional role involved
teaching courses on child protection and my integrity would not allow me to ignore what my father had told me.

As soon as I returned from holiday, I telephoned my aunt again, and demanded to know why, given my father’s history and, in 1959, that he had then recently emerged from
prison for sexual offences, she had allowed her children anywhere near him.

‘I thought it might have all been a mistake with the babysitter [Betty], and that maybe he’d learned his lesson,’ she said. ‘And he was their uncle, married to your mum.
They always thought the world of their aunt Mary, so I never thought for one minute he’d try anything with my two.’

‘Then why on earth did you ignore what C told you?’ I asked.

Several seconds passed while she fished about for answers. Then she said, ‘I had to stop it right there. My husband would’ve killed him if he’d got any inkling about what your
dad had done. There would have been terrible trouble in the family, and I couldn’t have that on my conscience.’

I marvelled at her logic. Where had the need come from to protect such a man? Why had her loyalty to her own two daughters not come first?

Then my aunt told me the real reason she had not gone straight to the police when this incident occurred. ‘You don’t know, Sandra, what it was like. I couldn’t have put your
mum through any more pain. She’d been to hell and back, with people talking and whispering, and everything in the papers. Then she got the house beside your gran, and she seemed to be getting
back on her feet. When he got out, we all felt he deserved another chance, and your mum’s such a Christian soul, she gave it. I felt I had to protect her. She didn’t deserve more pain.
And it’s all in the past now, anyway, no need to bring it all up. Some things are better left alone.’

‘In this case, we can’t do that,’ I said gently. ‘It may not have been reported then, but it will have to be now.’ As calmly as I could, I explained about the
investigation and what had triggered it off. The silence at the other end was deafening.

It would be up to C and D, now grown women, I explained, as to whether they made a statement to the police, but her daughters had information that Jim McEwan would be interested to hear. Any
evidence that proved I was correct about my father’s pattern of behaviour might aid the investigation into the murder of Moira Anderson.

‘Oh, my God! You’re not saying he’s responsible for that!’ she screeched.

‘I’m having to try not to think about that,’ I replied grimly, ‘but when I said a moment ago that my dad spoke to me about Moira, and I went to the police with
information he gave me, I didn’t mean that he was just a witness they had missed at the time. The reason I reported the matter, after nights of no sleep, is because I believe he witnessed her
death. And that’s because he took her life in 1957.’

As the leaves started to turn in our garden, there were days when I felt crippled by anxiety, shame and insecurity. Fear of what lay ahead paralysed me, although I continued to
work feverishly. It seemed important to have some areas of my life still under control and functioning, so I threw myself into the Master in Education I had embarked on just before my world
disintegrated. I met other new students and prepared for my own first exam.

Jim had now interviewed a number of people: some ex-colleagues in the police and some of my father’s former workmates. Most seemed, he joked, to be suffering from the disease of the three
wise monkeys: they had seen nothing, heard nothing, and were prepared to say nothing, but some of his probing, he felt, was beginning to prove fruitful. I explained what had happened to one set of
cousins. I knew it was imperative that I spoke to the other four, but fear gripped me as to what I might find.

I reflected on the wall of silence Jim had encountered from those we had felt would be able to help. Some of the former Baxter’s employees were now silver-haired grandparents but the
clippies who had been involved in or had observed my father’s affairs were reluctant to admit to any part in it. They were wary of what their families would think. Drivers refused to comment
in front of their spouses on the wide-scale philandering that had gone on.

This selective amnesia was apparent, too, in the ranks of retired policemen. Though not all were unwilling to be interviewed, Jim’s officers were meeting surprising resistance: some former
policemen seemed uneasy that this case was being put under a spotlight once more.

One retired policeman, though, Alex Imrie, made a damning statement: ‘Complaints were made on numerous occasions about Alexander Gartshore. Very often these were in the vicinity of Dunbeth
Park, in particular the bushes there. His exceptional height gave him away. He was long suspected of being a flasher within the park, and in other areas, but this was not able to be proved.’
Significantly he added, ‘He was never interviewed regarding Moira Anderson.’

The unexpected stonewalling Jim encountered made my desire all the stronger to discover the truth as to what had happened to Moira.

I decided to attempt to speak to my cousin B. Her mother was seriously ill in hospital and I suggested I accompanied her to see how my aunt was doing. We would have a few minutes of privacy in
her car. She agreed and we set off. B is an attractive woman, with glossy black hair and striking features. She chatted nineteen to the dozen until I asked, ‘I know this is kind of out of the
blue, and I don’t want it to upset you, but can I ask . . . did my father ever make any sexual advances to you when you were little?’

The question had a dramatic effect. B’s knuckles tightened on the steering wheel, and she almost drove through a red light near Monklands Hospital. I was struck by the closed expression
that came down like a shutter on her face.

‘What a thing to ask!’ She tried to regain her composure as she swung her saloon into the car park, checking her driving mirror several times, and avoiding my eye.

‘I don’t want to upset you or A,’ I apologized, ‘not when your mum is so ill. But I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t have to. It’s vital. I can explain why I
need to know later, but please tell me, did anything – anything at all – ever happen?’

Still she avoided my eyes. Finally, she answered in a strangled tone, ‘Your dad, he was . . . I mean it was so long ago . . . he was over-friendly, that’s all I want to say.’
Then she repeated, ‘Just over-friendly.’

Before I could ask her anything else, she swung her legs out of the car, and was off, rushing towards the main entrance so that I had to hurry to catch up. As we strode along the corridors, she
pleaded with me not to say anything to her sister, who was grief-stricken about their mother. I promised.

Now that I had discovered another of my father’s victims, I knew there must be more.

Meanwhile, I had been telephoned by another relative. She had heard a rumour in the family, but could not accept it was true. Had I really sparked off some criminal investigation into my own
father which involved murder?

Yes, I had. She demanded to know what had caused me to go to the police. Wearily, I told her. ‘You should have ignored what your dad said, he’s your own flesh and blood, no matter
whit he’s done. He’ll be an old confused man by now!’ she cried.

I explained that seventy-one was no great age, and that he was pretty sharp.

‘It’s years since I saw him last, and I never want to see him again,’ she said. ‘But this information you’ve taken to the polis – it’s dangerous, the
work o’ the devil. You should’ve kidded on you never heard him say what he did. There’s nae need for all of this to come up again, what good’s it going to do?’ There
followed a string of invective, the main gist of which was that I would live to regret the steps I had taken and had carried out what she considered to be a betrayal of the whole family.

‘This will kill your mammy, and you’ll be responsible, if you take this any further. D’you hear me? You don’t know what ye’re getting yerself into, and all yer
family tae! They’ve tae haud up their heads in Coatbridge. This cannae go any further.’

‘It already has.’

‘Listen, ye wee bitch from hell, whit about yer mammy? This’ll kill her, as God’s ma judge.’

‘I’d never do anything to hurt my mother!’ I roared, then took a deep breath. ‘Look, I love my mum, but if anyone’s hurt her it’s that bastard down in Leeds
and I’ve got enough on my mind right now, without you adding your twopence worth. Just remember, the damage was done a long time ago, but not by me.’

I paused for a second in an attempt to control my anger and my language.

‘There are people who could have tipped off the police about my dad years ago, and what he got up to, and that includes you. The truth’s got to come out, whether it’s going to
upset folk or not. I’ve given a number of names to the detective in charge, and they’ll be coming to see you, so save your criticism for them. If they’d done their job properly
thirty-five years ago, none of this would’ve happened.’

There was silence and then she declared she would never agree to being interviewed about her memories of Alexander. She point blank refused, she said, and nobody would make her. They would have
to drag her, kicking and screaming, before they’d get anything. (In fact, she was seen by the police later and made a revealing statement.) I was still shaking with fury, when she rang off
with the parting shot: ‘Mark my words, if a’ the family turn their backs on ye, ye’ve only yerself tae blame.’

She left me with a horrible sense that whatever I did, I was going to incur somebody’s wrath.

Another attack was more subtle. My mother’s sister asked me how I was getting on with my counsellor and I told her that Ashley was probably single-handedly responsible for keeping my life
in one piece. While Ronnie and the children were supportive, what was happening to me was outside their experience. ‘She’s great. We’re meeting weekly just now, and I’m
finding it a godsend.’ I added, ‘Isn’t it silly that I was a bit resistant to her at the start because she was a psychiatric nurse? I said if anyone needs a psychiatrist,
it’s my dad!’

‘Don’t you think, though, Sandra, that it’s possibly all in your mind?’ Aunt Margaret chose her words with care. ‘You always had a very fertile imagination as a
child, you know. Isn’t it possible you’re confused about what your dad said? Do you not think maybe you’ve made a mistake, and that’s why you’re having psychiatric
help.’

I almost laughed out loud at the absurdity of what she had said. It would have been easier for some of my relatives to hear I was insane than to confront the truth. I refused to be daunted,
though, and arranged a meeting with my cousins at B’s home.

It was a difficult evening. We had last met at A and B’s mother’s funeral and they were still in the rawest stages of bereavement.

Only F was not there. Her sister said that she could hardly remember my father, being only three or four when he left, so I imagined that her absence would not matter. I talked at length of what
I had been through in the past nine months, while those who had had no inkling sat motionless, drinks untouched. When I spoke of my past and my dad’s history there were shudders of horror and
tears.

When I had finished, I wiped my eyes, and said, ‘I’m pretty sure he never came near me, but for weeks now I’ve been having flashbacks, remembering the things I saw him do to my
friends, the womanizing, the lies. I can’t tell when I’m going to have them, they just happen, and I’m right there going through the experience again, feeling the same horrible
feelings, even smelling the smells – it’s awful. It’s one thing to know your dad’s a sadistic brute who thought nothing of walloping you with the buckle end of his leather
belt, but it’s quite another to realize that he is the most awful liar, that he’s a paedophile who’s molested kiddies all his days, and that there’s one victim, at least,
who didn’t escape with her life. That’s why, hard as it is o discuss, I must know about
you
.’

C and D told of what had gone on in the garage at Ashgrove. Then A said, ‘Neither of us escaped him, either.’ She and her sister, she told us, had not realized for a long time that
they were both victims. The campaign my father had waged against them had been sustained over several years.

A is a slim woman, with high cheekbones, dramatic brown eyes, like her sister, and an infectious laugh. Now, she was trembling as she told us how B had related to her our conversation in the
car, and how they had decided to talk to me. ‘What’s the point of keeping it quiet now, even after all this time?’ Just as you’re remembering flashbacks, Sandra, I have had
to contend with incidents that involved your dad – some triggered by even the simplest things. My husband played a joke on me once and left me in the dark, with a bare light bulb swinging
about. I was petrified, without being able to think why, then I realized. Your dad pushed me into the cupboard he worked in at your house in Dunbeth Road. I was molested by him there, on more than
one occasion, for he was very sly – he’s adept at winning over kiddies. Let’s face it, we weren’t well off in those days, and it was such a novelty to know someone with a
car. All the kids were attracted, and I know I was flattered when I was just seven or eight, it made you feel special if he took you somewhere. It seemed so grown-up. Like a fool, I went with him.
Then you got into this situation you didn’t know how to cope with at that age. You were in his power, and of course, he was so devious. He made it look as if he was a nice man, taking kids
out when he knew our parents couldn’t afford a car – it was as if he was taking us off their hands, so it didn’t ever occur to my family to question what my uncle was actually
doing. He thought it all out carefully and only built up gradually.